


stay right next to you

by plinys



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 06:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19126048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/pseuds/plinys
Summary: It is not the first time that he's nearly died, but this one hits hardest of all.[or: some hurt/comfort following the Star Trek:TOS episode "The Tholian Web"]





	stay right next to you

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is brought to you by “Where No Man Has Gone Before”, a research project at the University of Oxford to document the history of the Kirk/Spock fandom as a social, cultural, and literary movement. 
> 
> Please take 10 minutes to take our survey [ here ](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/QF9SC25)

_ Space _ \- 

_ Endless and infinite -  _

_ Stretching out in all directions - _

_ The vastness which normally feels comforting - _

_ Instead - _

_ Panic -  _

_ Loneliness -  _

_ Too much and not enough - _

_ Gasping - _

_ Lungs failing to work - _

_ The flicker of people there -  _

_ Close but not close enough - _

_ His lips forming the word ‘hurry’ -  _

_ No sound escaping - _

_ And then he  _ -

He jolts awake.

Bolting up right in an instant.

Gasping struggling to breathe. 

Heart thundering at an uneven tempo in his chest.

Another breath, deeper this time, finally his brain seeming to catch up with reality.

Remembering that he is able to breathe now.

That he’s not running on borrowed time anymore. 

That he’s in his own bed back on the Enterprise, not floating off into nothingness.

Rationally he knows what this is, a nightmare, the vague reminders of panic still clinging to him even though he is more than well aware that he is no longer in the nightmarish landscape of his dreams. 

A nightmarish landscape that had been his reality not long ago. 

He can still feel it.

The endless expanse of space. 

Of loneliness. 

Of being the only being in all of the universe.

The feeling of being trapped with no escape. 

It haunts him, even now, even hours after, even when he is safe in his own bed. He doesn’t feel safe though. No, the panic is still there. Panic so strong that he almost feels like a child again. His heart racing in his chest. His lungs tight as they seem to have forgotten how to breathe and long since run out of air. His palms sweat damp as they press into his sheets, while his arms hold him shakily up right. 

It was an awareness that he had not expected. Being stranded there had been fine. It was not the first time Jim had been stranded waiting for a transporter signal to be patched. In fact, that situation was one that was almost familiar to Jim after all his years in Starfleet. There was no doubt in his mind for those first hours that his crew would come for him, that they would find a way to get him off of this ship. They always did, even if it took a while. 

Still there had been an eerie sensation standing there waiting for a transport that might never come, surrounded by the bodies of a crew that had torn themselves apart in madness. At first that had been his concern, that the  _ madness  _ would come for him too. A minor nagging thing. 

But then…

One moment he had been waiting. Stranded on board a ship that was not his own.

And then the next…

It was all gone. 

The very ground from under his feet turning into nothing but space. Endless stretches of stars and galaxies. The ship had vanished and he was there floating in the space between worlds. 

Not on the Defiant but not on the Enterprise either. 

Somewhere in between.

Somewhere not at all.

That was when the panic had set in. Steady and certain. 

Not madness as he had originally expected, but something far worse. 

When the shock of the ship being gone fell away, when he realized that he was suspended there, in space, in a universe all of his own. 

Before on the bridge he had described it as an almost beautiful thing. A sense of peace perhaps. The sort of flourish that he was known for. And for a moment, when it first happened, he had felt that peace. Fear of his impending death sliding away in a moment as he gazed out at the endless stretch of stars. Space uninterrupted. The way no man has ever witnessed it before. 

The way no man was ever meant to witness it.

The awe had slipped away just as suddenly as it has arrived.

Replaced instead with an awareness that could not be shaken.

Loneliness that settled deep into his core. 

Cold and dark lodging its way inside the deep cavity of his chest. 

That  _ this  _ would have been his end. 

Here in a universe where he was the one and only, where there would be nobody to mourn him, nobody to remember him, nothing but his own thoughts for company in his final moments. 

He had gasped then, struggling to breathe. His suit running low on oxygen, not meant for this sort of venture. Each breath pulling in less and less oxygen. The panic had arrived then. The need to push, to find a way to reach out to the Enterprise.

He had tried. 

Had found a way to call out across the void. 

Had used the last reserves of his energy to get a message across somehow.

But it had almost not been enough.

The cold feeling of loneliness, the deep ache in his lungs, the fear that still sent shivers down his spine - that had almost been his last comfort. 

If he closes his eyes now he can feel it again.

Too much. 

There’s no chance of sleeping now. Jim knows that, even though he could use the rest, that unless he could be guaranteed a dreamless sleep there was no chance of finding peace tonight.

Perhaps in sickbay he could find something that would help make his sleep a little bit easier. He had pointedly avoided tell Bones how much all of this had gotten to him though, and knowing his luck, the doctor would most certainly still be up working despite that fact that Jim knows he had just as busy and stressful of a day as Jim had. If not more. 

However, if he got lucky and it was one of the nurses that he could smile at and get his way with ease, well it would be worth the trip there if nothing else. 

With that in mind he gets out of bed, changes out of his sleep clothes, and into his uniform. 

It is just as his door slides open, steadfast in his determination to leave, though that he stills. Caught suddenly, his plan derailed in an instance, by the figure standing on the other side of his doorway.

Spock.

A  _ coincidence  _ surely. 

But why then did it not feel like one at all. 

Spock, standing there, just outside of his the door to his cabin, as if he had been about to knock. As if he had been hesitating to do so. Waiting instead.

No, not a coincidence. 

Not at all. 

He doesn’t question how Spock knew about his nightmare. How quickly he came to be there. Instead Jim takes the small blessing for what it was. The feeling of loneliness - all encompassing, neverending, a universe to his own - dissipates slightly now that he is no longer alone. Breathing easier without the lingering fear that his oxygen supply was depleting with no hope of ever being replenished. 

There’s a silent understanding between them for a second, before Jim nods his head once, taking a step back into his room, gesturing a moment later for Spock to join him - “Why do we have a drink?”

Spock hesitates for only a moment. And Jim half wonders if he will turn away, will make some excuse not to come in, some excuse for why he was lingering just there outside of Jim’s door. 

But eventually he nods in turn. “Though you know, I do not-”

“I know, I know,” Jim says, cutting him off with a small wave of his hand. “ _ I  _ need a drink, and since you’re here, it’s always better to drink with company.” 

Less  _ lonely  _ that way. 

The door closes automatically behind them, Jim bringing back up the lights, as he goes to pointedly pour himself a drink. Something strong, from his secret stash, the good stuff. 

He doesn’t drink it though, just holds it there in his glass, rocks the glass side to side a bit, focusing on the way the artificial lights reflect off the glass and the brown liquor within. 

“Captain?”

“Oh come on, Spock, not here.”

Spock concedes with him on that point, and when he speaks again it is with a softer tone, “Jim?”

“Yes?”

“Is there any particular reason why you’re drinking this late at night.” 

“I had a bad dream, happens occasionally,” Jim says easily.

Forcing his tone to be almost casual.

It could be, had today been any other day, he had nightmares often enough that he should be used to them by now. But there was something about this one, something that felt so much more  _ real _ , that had left him shaken even when he had woken up. 

Something that lingers. 

He can tell that Spock does not believe his tone, the arched eyebrow that he gets in reply proof of that much. 

“Really, Spock, I’m fine,” Jim insists, though the words sound false even to his own ears.

“Discussing the nature of your dream may help,” Spock offers tentatively. 

A logical answer. To an illogical problem. 

Jim sighs, finally giving in and downing his drink. It’s not nearly as satisfying as it should be, when he sets the glass down on the table. “Is that why you’re here?” 

Spock doesn’t answer.

Jim isn’t certain why he expected him to. 

Another sigh, more frustrated this time, more with himself than anything else,  and then - “I can still feel it, floating there in space, trapped and yet not trapped, in a universe all of my own. In my dreams, it feels like I’m still there, like I could be stuck there forever.” 

“It wouldn’t have been forever,” Spock corrects, and Jim swears there is a hint of something like  _ regret  _ in his voice. “Your oxygen supply was severely depleted, it would have been another forty-three seconds at most.” 

A bitter laugh finds its way up Jim’s throat. 

Forty-three seconds.

He had nearly died.

Wouldn’t have been the first time, probably won’t be the last time, and yet each time feels so much more real than the last. One of these days this great wonder of space will eventually kill him. Jim knows that. Has known that since he first joined Starfleet. 

Still, he does not seek out death. Avoids it where he can. 

_ If  _ he can.

“Well, I guess there’s that,” Jim says, a touch of sarcasm in his tone. “Thank you, Spock, that helps.”

Spock seeming to catch Jim’s tone, corrects himself, “I did not mean it in that way.” 

Jim wants to ask what way he did mean it then.

The hint of regret in his voice that still lingers. Though he will not admit it, Jim has gotten good at decoding the barest hints of emotions that Spock does so well to hide. And still... This gives him pause. There’s more there than what Spock is saying. 

Then again, Spock always seems to be thinking more than he is saying. 

That at least is still the same. 

Spock has always been a constant in this way.

And in so many other ways.

“I know,” Jim replies. Even though he’s not entirely certain he does.

Spock nods at that. 

Jim watches him now. How awkward he looks standing there in Jim’s quarters, his hands rested behind his back. Watching Jim with eyes that are so clearly concerned.

He knows from experience that he will have to probe out whatever it is that’s actually on Spock’s mind if they were ever going to get anywhere. So he asks - “Why are you really here, Spock?”

Spock does not hesitate this time. “I must admit that, I was not entirely honest before.” 

“I thought Vulcans couldn’t lie,” Jim says, with a small quirk of his lips.

A joke to ease the tension. 

Not that Spock is ever inclined towards jokes.

It was a common misconception that Vulcans couldn’t lie. One that Jim had found proved to be untrue on multiple occasions. Years together, on this ship, he would be a fool not to be aware of the truth. 

He swears for a second he sees Spock’s lips quirk as well. Just for a second, easily missed if one were to blink, before he’s back to his usual serious demeanor. 

“Doctor McCoy and I watched your final orders,” Spock admit., “I had not wanted to, determined as I was to deal with the crisis at hand, and then they did not matter as we rescued you shortly thereafter. However, I do not feel comfortable keeping the truth from you. I thought, knowing that we have seen them, you may have wished to record another set, for the next time such circumstances arise.”

He should have figured as much. 

Jim was not a fool. He’s known both Spock and Bones for more than long enough to have seen through their little charade on the bridge. In fact, he had already made plans to record another message, in a few days, when his head was clear. 

“I know.”

“You knew?”

“I’m not a fool, Spock.”

“I would never imply that you are.”

No, of course he wouldn’t. Not in so many words.

Jim avoids pointing that out and instead asks, “Did you think I was dead?”

“It was the most logical conclusion.”

“I’m not asking that,” Jim says, “Did  _ you  _ think that was. Is that why you fired upon the Tholians? Because you believed me to be already lost?” 

It would make sense. It would be the  _ logical  _ conclusion. When Jim had read the reports - before sleeping, which now in hindsight may have been his fatal flaw - he had assumed as much. That Spock had ruled him out as lost and therefore had fired upon them. 

The reports did not explain why Spock kept the Enterprise here, in an already fragile expanse of space, for so long if that was the case. 

However, now with Spock admitting his reluctance to watch Jim’s final orders. It seemed the truth of why he had not watched them less a concern with the pressing of time and the need to ensure the safety of the crew, and more an unwillingness to mourn. An unwillingness to accept what had nearly been Jim’s death.

“Why did you stay, Spock? It would have been so easy to leave. To take the Enterprise to safety, to claim the captaincy for yourself?”

“I had a feeling that you were not dead.” 

A  _ feeling _ .

“I didn’t know that Vulcans believed in intuition.”

Spock gives him a look of almost displeasure at that. As if he wants to say something. As if there was something he could say that could dispute Jim’s point. But he seems to think better of it at the last minute, seems content to hold his tongue.

Jim cannot help but wondering what he might have said.

What Spock just barely resists admitting to. 

Instead he says, slowly, as if having carefully chosen his words. Correcting himself.  “I had hoped that you were not.” 

Jim moves at that, crossing the room so that he is closer to Spock. So that there are inches rather than feet separating them. “Hope is a rare thing for a Vulcan.” 

“Yes,” Spock concedes. “You are right, it would have been easy to leave. Doctor McCoy even questioned why I did not do so. I could not explain it to him at the time, and even now, after hours of meditation, I still am uncertain of how to explain it to you. It was hope in the barest of forms perhaps, but leaving meant accepting that you were truly lost, and even when logic pointed to a greater chance that you were already lost... I could not leave.” Spock pauses for a moment, and when he speaks again there is an ache in his voice. “I could not let you die.”

There’s something about the way he says it. Open and honest. In a way that lets Jim know that  _ this  _ was why Spock had really been outside of his door. That it was not because of a coincidence, not even to admit to having seen his final orders.

No.

In a way, it had been a nightmare of Spock’s own sort.

He had needed the confirmation that Jim was alive and well and on this plane of reality. Just as Jim had needed the confirmation that he was not all alone in the universe.

His eyes meet Spock’s and Jim can see past the all this emotional barriers at once, the truth in what he is feeling underneath it all, the feeling the lingers in Jim’s chest as well. 

Not a coincidence, but  _ fate _ . 

“I’m here, I’m alive,” Jim says. 

It feels perhaps more intimate than it should, the closeness of them already, when Spock reaches up to brush two of his fingers against Jim’s neck, as if checking for a pulse. Checking for confirmation. He knows that this is a rare thing for Spock, Vulcans’ touch telepathy and all, so he does not flinch back in surprise as he might normally at the feeling of cold fingers against his skin.

Does not feel discomfort at the tension. Instead for a brief moment all of his fears and worries slip away, replaced with something else. A feeling of safety and security. He simply breathes in and out. Feeling peace for the first time in hours.  

His eyes flicker shut involuntarily as he focuses on the small feeling. The tangible touch of someone else. Irrefutable proof that he is not all alone in the universe. 

The moment seems to last forever, and yet not long enough, before Spock finally pulls his hand away. 

“I should leave you to sleep,” Spock says, breaking the silence that had momentarily settled between them. 

Jim’s eyes open slowly. Back to full awareness. “Not really a chance of that happening without another nightmare. It’s the loneliness that’s the worst.”

With the barest hint of a frown on his lips, Spock insists, “You need to rest. ”

Spock’s right, as much as Jim hates to admit it. But still… There’s only two ways Jim can think of that would help him to get a restless sleep, and since his plan to stop by the Sick Bay had been derailed by Spock’s earlier appearance. 

Jim sighs. He’s going to need another drink if there’s even a chance at sleeping

Not that the thought of that is a pleasant one.

Now with the absence of Spock’s touch, with the threat of another nightmare looming, he can feel it again the  _ panic  _ looming just there on the horizon, so close that if Jim doesn’t find solid ground again soon he is certain it will overtake him.

Distantly the sound of Spock’s voice cuts through the fog in his head, “Jim?”

“Stay,” the word falls from Jim’s lips before he can even think it through.

And yet… It feels right.

When Spock speaks it is with hesitance, but also with something else. Jim swears he can still feel the lingering ghost of Spock’s touch. “Would that help you sleep better?”

It would.

He knows it would.

Already just being here, Spock has helped to ground him to what is real. To ground him to this world so that he is not floating off into the endless expanse of space. 

Spock moves then, away from Jim, and at once Jim feels the cold absence of where he used to be. 

Going as if he intends to sit in a chair and watch Jim sleep. 

No, that wouldn’t do.

Wouldn’t be enough.

“It helps when we’re touching,” Jim says, the words spilling out from his lips before he can stop himself. “I don’t feel as alone when I can feel someone else there. I know it’s  _ illogical  _ or whatever, but call it a human need. Physical contact helps a great deal.” 

Spock seems to consider that for a moment. Stepping closer to Jim once more. 

“What did you have in mind?”

“My bed is more than big enough for two,” Jim offers hesitantly.

Again, Spock considers this before finally nodding. 

He will not admit it, cannot bring himself to say the words out loud. But Jim feels something at that. A relief. As if the weight that had been lingering there in his chest ever since he woke up from his nightmare was finally dissipating. 

It’s a little awkward at first finding their places in Jim’s bed. Elbows knocking into sides, as they try to adjust themselves. The bed really not  _ big enough for two  _ as Jim had earlier insisted. Certainly it is not the first time Jim has shared his bed with someone, not the last, but it is different with Spock here. But not in a way that is bad. 

No, instead it is as if their bodies were made to fit together this way.

Two parts of the same whole being. 

The awkwardness falls away instantly, replaced instead with a feeling that this is right where Jim should be. The cold cool feeling that has previously made its home in Jim’s chest, fading away, replaced with warmth instead. Spock pressed against Jim’s back, their bodies curled in the same shape of each other. Spock’s arm over Jim, hand pressed to his chest holding Jim in place. 

Here with Spock at his side, Jim feels safe, as if he was always meant to be there, as if he always will be. 

He half wonders what Spock can feel. If he can feel what Jim is feeling through the layers of Jim’s shirt between them. Feel that no longer is Jim clinging to the lingering hints of his nightmare. The ghosts and echoes of the other dimension that he had never been trapped in.

Instead, for the first time since being pulled out from the other dimension, for the first time since  _ Spock  _ saved him, Jim feels right. Safe and grounded, no longer at risk of floating away into nothingness. No longer at risk of being forty-three seconds away from taking his last breath.

This time when he takes a deep breath it is shakey not from fear of running out of air, or from the lingering nightmare. When his hands shake against the blankets, and the tears that burning at his eyes, it is not with fear. But instead from something deeper. Something so human and emotional. 

Spock knows.

Somehow.

Senses just how close Jim is to falling apart.

When Jim finally gives in, knowing that Spock is there to hold onto him, the tears finally falling. Spock is there as a steady presence holding Jim in place. Whispering words that take a minute to break through the fog in Jim’s head. “I am here,” and  “I have got you,” and “You are safe now,” and “I will not let you go,” and “I will never let you die,” and “ _ T’hy’la. _ ”

The last word sticks in his head.

It’s important.

It means something.

And despite the fog, the hint of sleep he desperately needs, the last vestiges of fear being forced away, Jim knows that  _ this  _ is important, that it means something, that things are changing. That’s a discussion for the morning. One Jim won’t let Spock escape from.

But for now… 

For now he lets himself give into the feeling of comfort. Of Spock here with him, holding him safe and sound. The feeling like a ghost of a kiss against the back of Jim’s head. The hand pressed steady against his chest, holding onto him, feeling for a heart beat. 

They’re alive. 

They both are.

Here and now.

Safe and together.

For now that is enough. 

When finally he can fall asleep again, waves of restfulness and exhaustion taking over him, Jim does not fight it, for it is a sleep without worry that nightmares waking him, because here in the space with the lights dimmed low and Spock beside him, here he feels safe.

 

**Author's Note:**

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